The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Howard Good

AT KELLY'S SHAMROCK TAVERN

In the part of town where the porches sag
and evening starts out as an ache,

where the thuggish wind off the dark river
pistol whips the last few pedestrians

and a sweaty woman up in a rented room
moves her broad hips like a jackhammer,

where God has the kind of face he deserves,
the square, brutal forehead of a dirty cop,

I lean on the bar and order a shot and a beer,
and with a cigarette in my fist and the dead

smokestacks of ancient industries to my back,
wait for my luck, or at least the day, to change.





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